Someone wrote that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. By that definition Harold was surely insane. Once again, he was sitting at his desk furiously scribbling away what appeared to be a personal letter. It has become part of his ritual. Just after breakfast, and before Wheel of Fortune comes on, Harold sits at his desk and writes. He had been doing this for so long now that there have been rumors around the nursing home about what it could be. Some would say he is writing medical boards to try and reinstate his license. Others say he is writing any friend or family member he can think of, and plea with them to take care of him instead of this nursing home. Or maybe he is writing a long-lost love. Hoping to see them again before his time runs out. The most likely and agreed upon reason by the workers is he doesn’t know what he’s writing at all. They are all just ramblings of a senile man who forgot what he wrote the day before and he is just trying to tell someone how his life is.

Harold had become somewhat of a mystery around the Shady Point Nursing Home because he doesn’t speak very often. The staff will give him a greeting and they would be somewhat ignored. He would smile sometimes or give them a polite nod, but seldom replied. The only staff member he would speak to was the man in charge of the home: Dr. Leonard McAlister. A very kind man in his mid-50’s with thinning red hair, brown eyes, and a very pleasant smile. Whenever Dr. McAlister would make his rounds a calming aura seemed to follow him around and wash over each patient he interacted with. Once upon a time he used to work for Harold, when Harold was the Chief of Medicine at a hospital a few miles away. Dr. McAlister used to look up to him, and Harold, who had bared no children, would treat him as a son of sorts. So, naturally when Harold became too ill to care for himself, Dr. McAlister insisted he be put in his care.

There are plenty of examples of residents in Shady Point whose brain had deteriorated, and Harold was far from the worst case. He was able to clean himself, dress himself, and he never missed a meal. On most days, he could either be found in his rocking chair by the window that over-looked the vegetable garden, or walking in the half-acre of grass behind the building. He was always by himself, but never appeared to be lost. Even in the communal areas, Harold would not interact with anyone. He preferred to be alone, but nothing about his demeanor suggested that he held any contempt for the people that lived and worked there. Instead, he had the appearance of a man preoccupied. As if there was something echoing in his head that required long hours of uninterrupted focus.

Due to his lack of socialization and apparent signs of deterioration, Harold was often discussed. It made his fellow residents uncomfortable, and it confused the staff on what type of treatment and medication he should be receiving. Dr. McAlister would constantly remind them all that Harold is receiving the adequate amount of care, and he poses no threat to himself, or anyone around him. Dr. McAlister’s lack of specificity did not ease the forest fire of rumors and myths that surrounded Harold. Everyday Harold would finish his letter and hand it to McAlister. Neither the envelope nor the letter inside it had been looked at or read by anyone other than the two people handling the message. The only information that anyone else had in the nursing home was that there is something written on the front of the envelope that was not an address. Mrs. Mahoney is one of the other residents, and she swore she saw “CONFIDENTIAL” written on it. She was one of many people around the nursing home that claimed to know what was written on his letters. A wide range of accusations had been made, ranging from Mrs. Mahoney’s claim of:” CONFIDENTIAL”, to “MOTHER” to “TARGET” meaning that it was someone for McAlister to assassinate. But they all did agree that there is no address on the envelope.The ritual and the mystery surrounding it continued for years. Harold would write and write. McAlister would drop by his room, and do with it whatever the two men agreed should be done. Until one day, Harold did not sit at his desk after breakfast and before Wheel of Fortune. As soon as breakfast was over, Harold finished his orange juice and stormed out of the cafeteria. He was out of sight before his cup settled down on the table. He walked with purpose. He would have run if his knees and back could take it. Harold continued his hunched lean-sprint past one of the nurses who tried to grab him by the arm. Ripping his arm away before the nurse could get a solid grip, and letting out a grunt, all while keeping his eyes straight forward. He continued his staring contest all the way to McAlister’s office.

McAlister looked up from his desk to see an elderly man in a red sweatshirt, out of breath, with what’s left of his thin silver hair pushed back as if he held his head out of a car moving down the highway at 80mph. There was a young and concerned nurse standing behind Harold. The look in her eyes said she did not know what he wanted her to do about his old mentor-of-a-patient. When Harold caught his breath he finally spoke.

“Lenny, we need to talk. Now!”

McAlister put down his pen and looked back at the nurse and nodded in a way that gave her approval to leave this situation.

Smiling, McAlister said, “Sure, come on in Harold. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

McAlister stood up, walked around his desk and went to close the door. He then guided Harold to a seat before returning to his desk.

“When was the last time you looked at one of the letters, Lenny?”

Squinting his eyes and angling his head slightly, McAlister said, “Well, I try to read them daily, but I don’t let them gather for more than I week before I go through them.”

“Don’t be a chicken shit, Lenny. When was the last time you read one?”

McAlister leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Then said, “three days ago, I believe.”

“And what did it say?” Harold snapped.

McAlister then closed his eyes trying to recall. “I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary. Just your thoughts on the day, and a brief self-assessment of your mental capabilities. What’s this all about, Harold?”“I don’t remember what it said. I don’t remember even writing the damn thing.”

“That’s perfectly normal. A man of your age is expected to become more forgetful. Nothing to worry about. Just write them whenever you can.” McAlister then revealed his ever-calming smile to help ease him.

Harold leaned even further over and was staring at the ground. “Those letters were the only thing that I had going for me. I was a doctor for 45 years, and even coming here, I could assist you in a study on Alzheimer’s, documenting my day to day memory as best I could. It gave me purpose. What now?”

“You don’t have to stop documenting. Your lack of writing on some days would actually be one of the best ways to document your condition.”

Harold didn’t comment or motion one way or the other. He was frozen stone cold.

A few seconds went by with no one speaking. McAlister then stood up and walked to a bookshelf where he pulled a cardboard box down from. Placing it on his desk and removing the lid he said, “look at this, Harold.”Inside were countless envelopes, with dates spanning almost five years and some were yellowing from age. “This is every letter you have written since you’ve been at Shady Point. You’re quite a persistent man.”Without looking up Harold said, “That’s what Becky used to say.” And McAlister swore he could see what resembled a smile start to show itself on Harold’s face.

“I know it has been a hard 5 years for you, Harold, but just look at the work you’ve put in. So rarely is it that someone who knows what they are looking for in a disease becomes diagnosed, and has a first-person account of what is happening. It’s like you’re dissecting your own brain. You’re work has been marvelous.”

Whatever evidence of a smile that was on Harold’s face disappeared, and he slowly looked up at McAlister. Anger in his eyes was now what stood out on his face. His dry, leathery lips began to curl and quiver.

“You little shit. How long has it been? How long did you say it has been since my wife died?” Harold’s voice was bordering a scream. Easing up to his feet he began to walk over to McAlister.

Holding up one hand defensively, McAlister said, “What’s the matter Harold?” with a shaky voice.With his liver-spotted hand, Harold grabbed McAlister by the shirt and got four inches away from his face.

McAlister was impressed by how much strength he had for appearing to be so frail. “You just said she died five years ago. It has only been three. Now I’m going to ask you once, and you better be honest: how long has she been dead?”

McAlister let out a sigh and looked down. He gently grabbed Harold’s hand and removed it from his shirt. “It has been 5 years.”

Harold’s eyes looked down at the ground and away. He took a few steps back and turned around with his back to McAlister.

“Did you know?” Harold said.

“Did I know what?”

“That I don’t remember these last two years.”

“I had my suspicions that your condition had worsened, but I didn’t want to take away your purpose. The letter everyday appeared to be the most important thing in your life. Who am I to take that away from you?”

Turning back around to face McAlister, with watery eyes, and a realization that he was on old man, with practically no memories left, Harold said, “A friend.”

“I’m sorry, Harold, but nothing was better documentation than your lack of awareness of your digression. Don’t think for a moment that I didn’t feel guilty about not telling you when you are repeating yourself, or you forget some of your closest friend’s names. It would have been embarrassing for you, and painful for me. I’m fearful of the day when you forget who I am all together.”

Harold began to move his mouth but no words came out. He was finally able to whimper out a few words, “Have I been here before?”

“In this office before? Yes, plenty.”

“No, have I done this. Have I stormed in here because I thought you weren’t reading my letters anymore? Have you told me how long my wife has been dead before?”

McAlister took a few seconds and said, “About 2 weeks ago you did. You weren’t as hostile, but more or less the same conversation took place.”

Harold began to shift his eyes back and forth across the carpet of McAlister’s office.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Harold. It’s okay. We can give you medication to help calm you down, and slow the progression of the disease.”

Harold looked up and said, “No. No medication. We will continue as normal. Over these last…I don’t know how many years, I have forgotten most things. I would imagine I would forget this too. I’m hoping that I will anyway.”

Harold slowly turned around and shuffled out of the room. McAlister put his hands in his pockets and let out a sigh. He had hurt his dear old friend, and Alzheimer’s is going to help him be forgiven. He knew the progression would accelerate, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He just had to watch his idol wither away.

He continued to write letters for several weeks after that, never bringing up his condition worsening, nor the deceit of Dr. McAlister. The letters became simplified, until they were basically the same letter over and over again, with very minor changes to wording. ​One day, Harold did not write, nor did he storm down to Dr. McAlister’s office. He spent the last weeks of his life sitting in the rocking chair forgetting what he once knew like the back of his hands, which he now barely recognized either. He would wonder out into the half acre of grass behind the building with one of the nurses nearby and thought to himself, “It has been a long three years.”​​

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Reece Snyder is a U.S Marine Corps Veteran who lives with his wife, Emily, and his two cats, Salem and Diego, in Buffalo, NY. He is an aspiring writer who enjoys watching football, traveling, and critiquing movies.